Jan 2016
I measured out, in both hands, the words I meant to say to you, and the interjections in my head.
All fuss and pain and clown games danced lightly and mockingly around the center of your demise, that which is invisible and fabricated yet completely real, and massively powerful.
The completely furnished, embellished, yet totally factual and veracious monstrosities that tore your reputation like a hard, cold blade invaded the private, the public, the distant, the remote and shiny leaves of a dark manifesto. And somehow, the literal appears most truthful, especially when nothing explodes into that active, dynamic Thing. (Result).
Essentially, you birthed the unreal to make real, and the made-real spewed demons all over our fragile little spaces. How do you intend to clean them up? The whole world knows you can afford to try, but can you ever really fix this? Like sand, your problems spread and stick to every moist and breathing life form.
I myself have always wondered why they played the music for you. Your meek and fragile nature, contrived by pressure, pressure that is easy to extinguish, the pressure embodying a dying breed encouraged by bounty and beauty, is somehow praised with music that belongs to the bold and primitive. Have you ever tried to face your own music? When it does not fit you like a glove on your delicate, struggling hand, is it time to join a new band?
All fuss and pain and clown games danced lightly and mockingly around the center of your demise, that which is invisible and fabricated yet completely real, and massively powerful.
The completely furnished, embellished, yet totally factual and veracious monstrosities that tore your reputation like a hard, cold blade invaded the private, the public, the distant, the remote and shiny leaves of a dark manifesto. And somehow, the literal appears most truthful, especially when nothing explodes into that active, dynamic Thing. (Result).
Essentially, you birthed the unreal to make real, and the made-real spewed demons all over our fragile little spaces. How do you intend to clean them up? The whole world knows you can afford to try, but can you ever really fix this? Like sand, your problems spread and stick to every moist and breathing life form.
I myself have always wondered why they played the music for you. Your meek and fragile nature, contrived by pressure, pressure that is easy to extinguish, the pressure embodying a dying breed encouraged by bounty and beauty, is somehow praised with music that belongs to the bold and primitive. Have you ever tried to face your own music? When it does not fit you like a glove on your delicate, struggling hand, is it time to join a new band?
